Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 124

I grab the beers and follow him after a beat. We settle on the couch, the glow of the TV spilling shadows over us. Xander flicks through channels before stopping on Ink Master. I’ve seen it paused on his laptop at the shop before, some tattoo competition thing. Artists hunched over canvases of skin, judges tearing them apart with brutal precision.

It’s so different from where we were just a while ago. That damn talk left a heaviness pressing down on the room, like the air’s too thick to breathe right. My jaw tightens. I’m so pissed at Nate for dragging this into the light before I was ready.

A few minutes crawl by, neither of us saying much, until Xander, eyes glued to the screen, asks, “We’re still going antiquing tomorrow?”

I shrug, keeping my tone even. “Sure. Just hope all this tension doesn’t suffocate us before then.”

That finally earns me his attention. He turns, catches me watching him.

“There are tons of risky jobs out there,” I tell him. “Cops, firefighters, stuntmen, hell...even construction workers. People–”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he cuts in, voice edged. “Because you’re none of those. You voluntarily throw yourself into—”

“I told you, I’m not risking my life,” I cut back, low and clipped.

He ignores it, barrels forward. “But you are. Even wrestlers...pro fighters, boxers, they’ve got rules. Regulations. Some fucking professional code.” His gaze hardens, steady as stone. “You come home looking like you’ve been dragged across concrete and fed to wolves.”

Home....my mind wants to ponder on that but I don't let it. “You’re exaggerating.” The words slip out quieter than I mean, but sharp all the same.

He scoffs, a sound so sharp it slices, and I keep my eyes locked on the screen. His glare burns at the side of my face, but I don’t turn. Instead, I grab my beer and drain it down in one long gulp, like maybe I can wash the tension out with it.

The show plays on, skin and ink and judges’ voices blurring into background noise. We eat in silence, and then....because he’s him, and he can’t not, Xander speaks.

“I just don’t want you constantly managing what I should know about you,” he says, his voice resigned, not sharp this time. “Keeping pieces of yourself tucked away like you’re afraid of what I’ll do with them.”

The words land heavier than any glare could. My hand stills around the bottle.

“I’ve told you this before, and I’ll say it again.” His eyes cut to me, steady, unwavering. “Only this time, I hope you’ll actually understand and believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

My chest tightens, something clawing at my ribs from the inside out.

He leans back slightly, softer now. “That’s not to pressure you. I just need you to know.”

The show fades out, the food, the beer, the tension....all of it drops away, leaving just his words echoing through me, hitting every place I thought I’d bricked up.

I hate this.

Whatever the hell this is between us right now, this taut wire strung so tight it could snap with one wrong word. I hate the knot in my chest, the way it feels like I’m the one who put us here. And maybe I did. Adam said it’s about being genuine, about not burying every damn feeling under silence. Technically, that’s what Xander’s asking for too. Only difference is, I don’t know if I can give it.

When we’re done eating, he gathers the plates. It’s simple and automatic, but my pulse spikes out of nowhere. Feels like he’s pulling away. Like if I let him walk too far, he won’t come back. Panic claws under my skin before I even think. I shift, stretch out on the couch, and drop my head onto his lap, blocking him in. My feet take up the rest of the couch space.

I tip my head back, look up at him. He lets out this long, weighted breath, but then his hand comes down, warm against my face. His thumb drags slow across my cheek, that steady rhythm he uses like he knows it calms me down.

“I like your face free of bruises,” he whispers.

His hand slips lower, to the hem of my shirt, fingers slipping underneath, tracing over my skin like he’s memorizing each line.

“Last time you laid here like this,” he says, softer still, “you were all busted up.”

That feels like forever ago. I stay quiet, because my throat’s gone tight. His touch is too gentle for me to hold it all together.

Then his voice shifts, heavier, the edge back in it. “What happens when something goes wrong in one of your fights, Jax? When you get seriously hurt? I haven’t even gotten to fuck you yet.”

A startled scoff tears out of me, completely unexpected. My hand closes around his, pulling it up, and I press a kiss into his open palm. “That’s all you’re worried about?” I mutter, mouth brushing skin.

He huffs, his tone lighter now, but I can feel the weight under it. “This is my first relationship. I’m doing everything I can to make it last. Then there’s you, part of some underground blood circus.”

My lips twitch, but it’s bitter more than amused. “It’s not that bad,” I counter, trying to make it sound like truth.

Silence follows, we just hold each other’s gaze. His eyes are searching mine like they want to peel me apart until I’ve got nothing left to hide behind.

Then he says, voice lower and serious, no way around it. “I constantly worry about you now, you know.”

I swallow hard, because he means it. Every word. And it feels strange, foreign even, to have someone care this much. I don’t know what to do with it, so I give him the only thing I can.

“I’ll be careful,” I say. It feels pathetic on my tongue, flimsy, but it’s what I’ve got. “If it’s any consolation, I mostly always win.”

“It’s not,” he replies instantly, not even pretending.

And then he leans down, brushing his mouth over mine. Just a ghost of a kiss, a tease of warmth, before his eyes lock onto mine, close enough I can’t escape.

“You say you need it,” he whispers, “...but I need you,Jax.”

The words hit me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. It’s too pure, it's something I don’t know how to hold without breaking.

I don’t answer.

He sits up straighter, eyes shifting back to the screen like nothing happened. His fingers slide into my hair instead, slow, steady strokes. I just lie there, staring up at him like I’m trying to memorize him too. And all I can think is how terrifying it feels to be needed.